Affliction
by Domicile
Summary: I had been the one to kiss her, six short months ago, but she had been the one to help me out of my clothes and into her bed. Cam


Every story should start like a fairytale. I would love to begin 'once upon a time' and perhaps follow that up with charming descriptions of a princess and prince who are destined to meet and fall in love. I would love to start off with some kind of light-hearted humor or perhaps just a quick tidbit of amusing wisdom that all should know but none will really care about. Instead, I start off remembering that this is a stupid writing assignment and I'm at a loss as to how to begin or what to write about.

I remember when I was young a teacher telling me to write 'I don't know what to write' until something popped into my head. And I would, generally for almost an hour, write that very phrase until I couldn't think and only those words remained burned forever into my skull. However, it has been so freaking long since than, I promise you that has changed. I have a multitude of stories now just coiling inside of me, wound up like a spring. But I can't let them out. I can't scribble them down on some stray piece of paper or spend hours hammering away at a keyboard trying to express all of these things going on in my head. I can't even begin to explain them to myself, let alone create a stream of pretty words that cover all of it in just one go.

Worst of all, all I can think about is her. Its not that I want to, or I'm groping for some kind of story surrounding her and me and some kind of happily ever after, which, by the way, I'm not expecting. But her because she surrounds _me_. In every possible way. What can I say? She captivates me.

But our story is much too long and involved to put into words and turn in for a lousy grade since my English teacher undoubtedly would not understand what I was getting at and would jut see it as an inability to focus my ideas. And no good fairytale starts out with the words "When I started screwing my best friend six months ago" so I'm pretty sure it wouldn't go over too well. Not that I haven't tried to make it flow. I've thrown together all of the combinations, sitting in my too hard seat and my boring, fake-wood desk. "Once upon a time, I started screwing my best friend." Yeah, that line always kind of felt like a failure. And all of this is the reason my paper is due in two weeks, the short story that is to make up a quarter of my grade and I will not pass this year if I do not pass this paper, and I'm still struggling to come up with an idea.

I guess, in all honesty, I would actually like to write about her. I mean, it is her that makes me feel so passionate, albeit late at night, and so wondrous. In my short life, which doesn't feel short to me, I've found the only time I really feel human or even alive is in pain or pleasure. Well, she gives me the best combination of both. A nasty bite here, followed by the sweetest soothing with her tongue and lips and I'm lost in feeling. And when she finally drifts off to sleep, this is where I end up. Stabbing at my computer, attempting to make sense of my brain.

I wonder if other people have my problems. How many people decide one night that having sex with their best friend is in everybody's best interest? How many have had their best friend make that decision? Well, me and mine kind of made it. It was really a joint effort. She had gone on a lousy date. I had kissed her. Simple. And definitely a joint effort.

"What are you doing up?"

The question is unexpected, considering it is quite nearly three in the morning, but not unsurprising. She was bound to wake up one of these days and notice my absence. So I look back at her, with a lazy grin, as if I could manage anything else, and hope words will come out of my mouth.

"Just trying to get this stupid assignment done." I tell her, incredibly grateful that my vocal cords and brain were still translating signals.

"Since when do you do or even care about school work?"

"This writing assignment feels important."

She smiles at me, a slow sly smile, and I'm back drifting off into my thoughts. She has always been unbelievably pretty. Even three or four years ago, long before this section of our relationship emerged, I had admired her looks. Her olive skin, almond-shaped, chocolate brown eyes. Her slender build, her delicate features. They had always made me think myself less than adequate in that department, but clearly they were to her liking.

"At three in the morning?" She throws back.

I had been the one to kiss her, six short months ago, but she had been the one to help me out of my clothes and into her bed. She had been the one with hands roaming to previously forbidden places and discovering all those little spots that make my eyes shift into the back of my head and my brain glitch. And she's the one that's stretching out of bed now, naked, and moving closer to me.

I shrug in response to her question and turn my head back to the computer screen. "I guess so. I can't think of anything to write about."

But she isn't listening to me. Her fingers link with mine and suddenly I'm on my feet. She tugs me forward as she stumbles backwards over abandoned articles of clothing until the back of her legs hit the bed. Her skin is icy in the chill of the night, but it's the right feeling against the burn winding up in the pit of my stomach. Her lips claim mine and she merely sits, pulling me to perch astride her. My legs fall to either side of her lap and I press myself as tightly to her as I can manage, kissing her back for all I'm worth. And in these moments, I'm never sure how much that is.

All the clothing I had put back on only about an hour ago is quickly being removed and I could care less. I want it gone just as much as she does. We never talk during this and rarely make eye contact. For some reason, though, we were now. The tip of her tongue slid across mine and our eyes met. Her pupils are severely dilated. I imagine mine are too. Her long lashes look jagged and even darker in the pale glow of my computer screen. I brush the back of my hand down her cheek before closing my eyes and throwing the passion back at her.

During these nights, it feels more like we're playing tetherball. But no matter how close the rope is to being completely wound against me and under her control, I manage to swing it back to her. So on we go, trying to get the other to lose control, to break. Instead of sex, it's a battle. I guess I have to remove myself from the situation. Or I would lose. I would lose everything to her and not care. Maybe I already have.

Sometimes, though, I can't lose. Sometimes I need to see that look of pure ecstasy on her face and know that I brought her to that. This is one of those nights.

A gentle kiss here, a sensual flutter of fingers circling low on her stomach and there it is. That sound, that _moan_. The kind no one means to make and is usually followed by a blush. Well, she isn't an exception. The rouge flows up her body to heat her forehead and stain her cheeks. She doesn't try to hide though. Her hands lace into my hair to encourage me forward as if I could stop.

I have to pleasure her. There really isn't a choice in the matter for me anymore. Her brother could walk in and I would continue. Hopefully he doesn't. But it wouldn't stop me, stop this. Her skin tastes of the spicy body wash we'd used in our shower around eleven and sweat.

When I finally slide back up her glistening body to kiss her once more, she grins at me.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

With an easy chuckle she says, "I have an idea for your assignment."

I drop my head and repress a giggle. "What?"

"You should write a fairytale."

And then I do laugh. But only because of the irony. Honestly, I want to write about this, about what just happened. About the feelings and the rush. Only, I'm pretty sure that would be inappropriate for my English class. So I guess I will just have to keep searching.

For now, though, I don't want to think about school or the real world at all. I just want to indulge a little. In her.


End file.
